


Mission: Impossible Probably Doesn't Have This Much Gay Panic

by anarchetypal



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, GTA AU, M/M, Ryan "You Can't Catch Me Gay Thoughts" Haywood, deliberately vague heist details
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 11:16:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9721865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchetypal/pseuds/anarchetypal
Summary: “Alright,” Ryan murmurs, shifting to move into a better position to intercept the guy when he comes through the door. “I’ll try to take him down quietly and maybe we won’t, uh, no, what are you doing,” he says, bewildered, when Jeremy vaults himself over the desk neatly and starts moving in Ryan’s direction.“I saw this in a movie once,” Jeremy says seriously, and then he’s grabbing Ryan by the lapels of his ill-fitting suit and hauling him down to kiss him.Fully. On the mouth. With tongue. It’s a little dirty.Ryan wants to say he plays it cool.





	

**Author's Note:**

> aka the self-indulgent, very ridiculous and tropey jeremwood fic i started in like september of last year and then forgot to finish

On Tuesday, Jack rolls her eyes and rubs her nose and says to Jeremy, “I’m not sick.”

On Wednesday, Jack coughs wetly and turns to Ryan before he can speak and snaps, “I’m _not_ sick.”

On Thursday, Jack shivers with a flushed face and rounds on Geoff and manages to sound pretty fucking threatening despite all the sweaters she’s bundled in when she says, “Say a goddamn thing about my health and I’ll cut off your balls, Ramsey.”

On Friday morning, Geoff hovers like a concerned mother in the doorway of Jack’s room and delicately suggests she _might_ not be well enough to pull off the job at the vineyard that weekend.

Ryan—who is _not_ hiding behind Geoff in fear of pillows or books or small knives being thrown in their general direction, thank you very much—waits for Jack to haul herself out of bed with a deliberate and intense rejection of any implication that illness is even a plausible thing that exists in any person, especially herself.

Instead, to the surprise of Ryan and Geoff and God Himself, Jack moans pitifully and burrows further underneath the blankets. “I think I came down with something,” she says, voice muffled by layers of bedding.

“Yeah, like four days ago,” Jeremy says. Ryan doesn’t jump in surprise, but it’s a close thing. He turns to see Jeremy behind him, lifted up on his toes slightly as he peers around Geoff and Ryan to look at Jack, concern twisting a slight frown to his mouth. Jeremy does that a lot—moves silently and unnoticed, effortlessly, despite the weight of him, his muscle and bulk, his bright personality and brighter green fucking hair. ( _Like a big fucking purple polkadotted elephant that can still be a ninja_ , Michael had said nonsensically during one of his more intense drinking sessions.)

The effect of Jack glaring daggers at him is diminished somewhat with the way she’s nested in pillows and blankets, face flushed, hair a mess. “Dooley,” she starts, venomous, and then she has to break off and cough hard for a few moments.

“I’m calling Caleb,” Geoff says, patting himself down for his phone.

“No, you’re not,” Jack protests.

“I’m gonna find a thermometer,” Jeremy adds, turning and disappearing down the hall.

“No, you’re not!” Jack calls out.

“I’m gonna— Uh, soup?” Ryan tries weakly, withering under Jack’s scowl and starting to back away from the room. “I’m gonna— I’m just gonna go.”

“I hate you all,” Jack shouts. “It’s just a cold!”

——

“It’s the flu,” Caleb says with a frown, pulling away from Jack’s bed. They look concerned, but mostly exasperated. “You should’ve called me sooner.”

Geoff has a distinct _I told you_ so expression and Ryan’s seriously in fear for Geoff’s life if the way Jack’s looking at him is any indication of how long he’s going to remain uninjured.

“But I can run this job,” Jack says, “right?”

She and Geoff are supposed to be going to a fancy wine tasting out in Blaine County to get access to various plans, names, locations, and other information supposedly stored on a computer on the property.

“Are you fucking kidding?” Geoff says, and Ryan and Jeremy look at each other and simultaneously flee from the room to the tune of Jack’s frustrated snap of a response and Caleb’s I-Seriously-Do-Not-Get-Paid-Enough-For-This-I-Mean-Really sigh.

Ryan has a sneaking suspicion—a growing sense of dread, really—that he knows what’s about to happen. He and Jeremy are idly playing Mario Kart in the living room when Geoff appears, looking disgruntled and like he’s on a mission. Ryan automatically looks for the nearest exit, but then Geoff’s standing in front of them, blocking their line of sight to the television.

“Geoff,” Jeremy says, swaying this way and that, trying to see around him. “Geoff, no, we’re playing rainbow road, this is a very crucial moment— Toad, nooooo,” he finishes sadly, his side of the split screen abruptly going dark.

“I need you two to run this job,” Geoff says firmly. It’s his ‘no-nonsense-I’m-the-dad’ voice, and Ryan resists the urge to whine.

“What about Gavin and Michael?” he asks. “When are they getting back?”

“Not until next week.”

“What about Lindsay?”

“Ryan.”

“Or Trevor.”

“You’re going,” Geoff says, looking exasperated. “End of discussion.”

“I will turn this car around, kids,” Jeremy says under his breath.

Geoff gives him a look. “It’s a straightforward job. You’ll have the invitation to the wine tasting already, so there won’t be any trouble getting in. Wait until the guests are too drunk to be paying attention and then look for an office. Our intel says it’ll probably be in one of the back rooms past the guest hall. You copy the plans onto a flash drive and bring it back here. Easy. You can handle it.”

The issue isn’t really that Ryan thinks he can’t handle it. Geoff’s right, it’s straightforward. The issue is that Ryan may or may not be harboring something vaguely in the realm of not-strictly coworker-like feelings for Jeremy, and the thought of spending hours at a fancy party pretending to be an item— Well. Ryan isn’t exactly interested in making a total idiot of himself in front of the guy he may or may  not be interested in.

“I don’t have a suit,” Ryan tries weakly.

“You can borrow one of mine.”

“Wait, hold on,” Jeremy says. He’s frowning. Ryan allows himself a brief moment of hope.

“What?” Geoff asks.

“I’m gonna have to dye my hair back to brown, aren’t I.” He looks devastated.

——

So, apparently they’re doing this.

Ryan fidgets in Geoff’s ill-fitting suit the whole drive up to Blaine County. This really isn’t their style: the crew is more about jobs with loud explosions and car chases than this type of covert operation.

( _It’ll be fun_ , Jeremy says. _Like Ocean’s Eleven. Or Mission: Impossible._ Ryan’s dubious.)

Ryan’s not really sure what he’s expecting, except it’s not this—a diamond of a vineyard in the rough of Blaine County. As they walk up the drive, he looks at the rows of vines reaching out into the distance towards the horizon. Rosebushes stand rooted at the start of each row, shadows of their thorned stems stretching long in the last few minutes of sunset.

“Pretty,” Jeremy comments.

“Useful,” Ryan replies, glancing over in time to see Jeremy’s curious expression.

“Useful?”

“Canary in the coal mine,” he explains—nonsensically, if the change in Jeremy’s face from curious to bewildered is any indication. He gestures vaguely. “The rosebushes are...more fragile. Than the vines. But they’re susceptible to the same diseases. So, disease happens, the roses go first, gives everyone a chance to fix things before everything goes to hell. They’re a—”

“Warning system,” Jeremy supplies, but he’s frowning.

“Necessary sacrifice.”

“Is it?”

Ryan looks at him. He opens his mouth to respond, but Jeremy’s already moved on, hands going to his suit pockets in search of their invitation as they approach the doors of the country house. The occasional formally-dressed couple filters inside after being not-quite interrogated by the man at the door who’s checking the guest list.

It says something about the sort of jobs Ryan usually takes that his brain automatically classifies the man as _bouncer_ even though he’s pretty sure there’s a higher-class term for what the guy is doing. Still, he can’t shake the tension that seizes hold of his shoulders, tension that comes only when he’s about to intimidate his way past a bouncer into a seedy club to do a shakedown or complete a contract hit.

But this isn’t downtown Los Santos, and he’s not the Vagabond right now.

Ryan takes in a breath, holds it, lets it go as he forces himself to shrug on the personality of this character he needs to become. The character that is happily married to Jeremy—to Jeremy’s _character_.

Ryan already has a headache.

“—is that okay?” Jeremy’s saying, looking up at Ryan with his brow furrowed.

Ryan blinks. “I— Yeah,” he says, nodding, trying to look more confident and less _I was paying zero attention to what you were saying because I’m still lowkey having a brain aneurysm every time I look down at the wedding ring on my finger or remember that I’m supposed to be pretending I’m married to you, and one of those two things happen approximately every four seconds, so I’ll basically be having one continuous moment of stupidity during this entire job, I hope that’s okay, and also I’m sorry you have to deal with me but there’s really nothing that can be done about it at this point, have I mentioned what an absolute catch I am._

“Great,” Jeremy says, oblivious, and suddenly there’s the warm weight of his bicep sliding into place against Ryan as he links their arms together.

“ _What are you doing_ ,” Ryan says lowly as Jeremy hands their invitation over to the not-bouncer, voice strangled and rough, like the manifestation of his huge gay crush is trying to crawl its way free from his throat.

Jeremy looks thrown off and alarmed. “You just said I could!” he hisses defensively, and he shifts hastily like he’s going to extract himself from Ryan.

And Ryan—well, maybe his grip on Jeremy sort of immediately tightens tenfold, but that’s just. Acting. Because the supposed married couple should probably not be pulling away from each other in ~~gay panic~~ alarm. He’s a professional. He’s acting. It’s fine.

“Mr. Armstrong,” the not-bouncer says as he looks up from the invitation to Ryan with a nod. He gestures to Jeremy. “And this is your husband?”

Ryan’s brain misfires. For a moment, he says nothing, gaping slightly, only managing to snap into action when the not-bouncer’s brow furrows in what appears to be concern. “Yeah,” he says. It comes out louder than he intends it to, more a bark than a response. He coughs, tries to salvage it. “Uh— Yes, this is my husband,” he clarifies, totally unnecessarily, voice now overly loud _and_ stilted. Jeremy looks pained.

_You’re a professional_ , his mind supplies again, except now it just sounds miserable.

Thank god for Jeremy, who laughs and strokes a hand down Ryan’s arm—ostensibly as a gesture of affection, but to Ryan it comes across as a desperate heed to _shut up before you get us shot, oh my god, what are you even doing._ “Newlyweds,” he explains, his smile unfairly charming. “He’s still getting used to it.”

Ryan tries to nod along, ducks his head with a carefully constructed sheepish smile, but he’s hyperaware of Jeremy’s soothing little touches to his arm.

There’s a voice in the back of his mind that sounds like Geoff, authoritative and exasperated and a little shrill. _Hey, asshole. You have a murder count in the triple digits. You are a very scary man. Please pop the fucking floating hearts making a love nest over your head._

The not-bouncer just shrugs and waves them in, and Ryan lets out a long, relieved sigh as they step into the air-conditioned hall.

It’s a large building, packed with rich people in varying states of tipsy, and Ryan has possibly never been so uncomfortable in his life.

Jeremy picks up on it, because Ryan has all the subtlety and more of a brick to the face. “You okay?”

Ryan opens his mouth to deflect, to brush the question off, but Jeremy’s looking at him earnestly, like he actually cares. That makes it all worse, somehow. “I’m not used to being in the field without my mask,” he admits. That is, at least, part of the truth; Ryan decides to leave out the _and you look really nice in a suit and that’s making me want to jump out the nearest window to escape my own feelings_.

Jeremy smiles. “Hey, don’t worry. All we gotta do is schmooze until everybody’s drunk. By then, nobody’s gonna remember what you look like, anyway.”

“Schmooze,” Ryan echoes dubiously.

“Plus, don’t you have a background in theater or something? Just act your way through it.”

Ryan freezes. “Who told you that.”

Jeremy grins, deceptively cherubic. “Geoff.”

“Of course he did.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ryan asks defensively.

“I mean, you’re kind of...dramatic?”

“Says the guy who wears purple and orange and nicknamed himself _Monster Truck_.”

Jeremy smiles wickedly and pulls out the big guns. “Geoff said you used to be a mod—”

“ _No one can prove anything_.”

Jeremy’s laughing now, dimples popping in his cheeks, and Ryan can’t stay annoyed for the life of him. Hell, Jeremy’s right; it’s a waiting game for now. There’s expensive wine and fancy little snack things ( _hors d'oeuvres_ , Jeremy says; _tiny snack things_ , Ryan insists) and he might as well enjoy himself before they have to really get to work.

Still, his mind is sending off little alerts, flashing neon signs that say _Date!! This is like a Date!! You’re the only one who thinks it’s like a date but you should still be very alarmed and awkward!!!_

He drowns those neon signs resolutely in wines he can’t pronounce the name of and tiny snack things he also can’t pronounce the name of, and he’s able to relax after half an hour or so.

It’s nice to really spend time with Jeremy. It’s hard to get a pocket of time where it’s just the two of them—Ryan supposes that’s the benefit and drawback to being part of a big crew: you’re never alone.

But now Jeremy talks about growing up in Boston and about how he has a cat ( _Scooter would love you, you should come over sometime and meet him_ , and Ryan has a heart attack) and Ryan learns a dozen things he never knew about Jeremy before.

To his own surprise, he starts sharing about himself, too. He’s comfortable with the crew; he’s grown a lot since joining, but he still doesn’t make a habit of offering up information unprompted. Maybe that’s reflex from years of paranoia or because he doesn’t think he’s very interesting, but Jeremy beams when Ryan says he wishes he had a dog and that he grew up in Georgia and he’s been self-conscious about the twang in his voice that pops up whenever he’s particularly tired or worked up ( _Dude, I think it’s nice_ , Jeremy says, _bet you get all the ladies with that,_ and, well, no).

Ryan’s waiting for Jeremy to come back with two of some weird sugary dessert thing Ryan saw and immediately demanded, but when he returns, he’s empty-handed and looking mildly panicked.

“ _Wegottago_.”

Ryan frowns. “What?”

Jeremy’s bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “We gotta _go_ , my old boss is here—”

“Who?”

“Joel Heyman,” Jeremy starts impatiently.

“You used to work for _Heyman?_ Why the hell did you never mention that?”

“It never came up.”

“ _Jeremy—_ ”

“Look, it’s fine, it’s just, I’m not totally sure if he’s gonna be cool about—”

“Dooley,” comes a calm voice.

Jeremy freezes, then plasters on a winning smile and turns around. “Joel,” he says warmly. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Joel Heyman, from what little Ryan knows about him, has vague ties to Geoff (and apparently Jeremy) and is one of the richest people in the city. It’s a little baffling that his suit is slightly too big on him and somewhat rumpled and faded, like he’s owned it for twenty years.

“What are you doing here, kid,” Joel demands with a sigh.

Jeremy’s smile doesn’t falter. “This is a wine tasting, Joel,” he says. “We’re tasting wine. Enjoying the high life.”

“Schmoozing,” Ryan puts in.

Joel raises an eyebrow at him, and he falls silent again. “You working a job for Ramsey?” he asks, voice low.

Jeremy looks uncomfortable. “Are you gonna make this hard for us?” he asks, tone suddenly serious.

Joel watches him for a long moment. “You going to blow the place up?” he asks.

“No.”

“Is my drinking going to be interrupted?”

“Probably not.” Joel cuts him a look. “Definitely not.”

Joel gives him another long look, then fixes Ryan with an identical one. “I never saw you,” he announces. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.” Ryan stares in bewilderment as Joel turns and walks off, tipping back the full wine glass in his hand and practically chugging it as he walks.

Ryan manages to tear his gaze away to look at Jeremy. “Was he like that while you were working for him?” he asks, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Oh, god no.”

“Huh.”

“He was way weirder.”

——

By the time they manage to sneak off into the back rooms of the vineyard hall, most of the guests are on the verge of drunk or well past it. They’d had to drink a bit themselves to keep up appearances, and it’s a testament to how infrequently Ryan drinks that he’s actually feeling somewhat buzzed as they look for the computer with the plans on it.

It doesn’t take long to find it, Jeremy picking his fifth lock to get them into a room that turns out to be the vineyard’s office; they close themselves in and Ryan listens for footsteps while Jeremy boots up the computer and gets the flash drive ready.

Despite how well everything’s been going so far—for a given value of _well_ , if _well_ involves tripping over Jeremy’s polished shoes every fifteen seconds as they search the back rooms, or earlier in the night when Ryan got startled and in a terrifying moment of blind reflex nearly embedded an hors d'oeuvre utensil into the throat of a poor, awkward, terrified bureaucrat like some kind of horrifying impromptu tracheotomy—

Despite _that_ , Ryan is beginning to think that their luck may have run out.

“Jeremy, we need to go,” he says, muscles coiled tight like he’s ready to run or fight or—or _stay still_ , apparently, which is what he’s currently doing, because Jeremy won’t step away from the computer where the drive is flashing blue as it gradually copies and stores the information.

“It just needs another minute.”

“We don’t _have_ a minute,” Ryan says. He presses an ear against the door and shuts his eyes, tense, waiting, mapping out a dozen escape routes in his head. “We have _maybe_ thirty seconds. Does that work?”

“Look, the thing—it says it needs fifty-three seconds, okay, do you want me to argue with the computer?”

“Well, _yeah_ , that’s what Gavin does!”

“He—okay, wait, _no?_ He definitely _doesn’t_ just argue with the computer, what the hell, what exactly do you think Gavin does when he’s—” Jeremy cuts himself off, goes still and quiet when heavy footsteps stop in front of the door.

“Alright,” Ryan murmurs, shifting to move into a better position to intercept the guy when he comes through the door. “I’ll try to take him down quietly and maybe we won’t, uh, no, what are you doing,” he says, bewildered, when Jeremy vaults himself over the desk neatly and starts moving in Ryan’s direction.

“I saw this in a movie once,” Jeremy says seriously, and then he’s grabbing Ryan by the lapels of his ill-fitting suit and hauling him down to kiss him.

Fully. On the mouth. With tongue. It’s a little dirty.

Ryan wants to say he plays it cool.

When the door slams open, Jeremy doesn’t even pause, not breaking away from Ryan until  a loud _Hey!_ comes from the guy standing in the doorway.

Jeremy pulls away with a wet noise and turns to look at the guy, one hand still hanging on to Ryan’s lapel.

“Oops,” Jeremy says. Ryan says nothing, because Ryan has lost all ability to speak or think or do anything other than stare at Jeremy, glassy-eyed.

“You can’t be in here,” the guy says roughly.

“Sorry,” Jeremy says sheepishly. “The wine just sorta… You know how it is.” Is he flirting?

The guy looks somewhat taken aback. Jeremy lets go of Ryan and moves to sit on the desk, hopping up and letting his legs swing.

After a moment, Ryan gets it. He lets Jeremy keep up the drunk, flirty guest act and focuses on the man in the doorway. The way his jacket hangs means he’s packing, a small handgun, probably, but it doesn’t take a big gun to kill someone, especially not in close quarters like this.

“You… You can’t be in here,” the guy says again. Ryan smiles apologetically and moves to get between the guy and Jeremy, blocking his line of sight.

“I’m sorry. My husband’s had a bit more than he can handle. It’s hard to tell him no sometimes.” _All the time._ “We’ll go.” By the time he turns around, Jeremy’s slipping a hand into the pocket of his suit pants.

“Okay, okay,” Jeremy singsongs, sliding off the desk and stumbling a bit before he crashes into Ryan and leans against him heavily, laughing. “We’ll go. But I’ll be seeing _you_ later,” he tells the guy, poking him playfully in the chest as Ryan ushers him out of the room and back down the hall towards the party.

“You know you’re gonna have to keep up the drunk persona for the rest of the night,” Ryan says lowly, one hand around Jeremy. It’s taking all of his effort not to think about the kiss, about the rough scratch of Jeremy’s facial hair and the soft, wet slide of his mouth and— _dammit_.

“Fuck that,” Jeremy replies, dragging Ryan from his reverie. “Let’s get the hell out of here as soon as it’s clear. That guy didn’t look like he bought it.”

“He’s armed.”

“Yeah. Not in the mood to get shot. Especially after drinking. You know how much more you bleed?”

——

Not wanting to seem even more suspicious than they already do, they decide to give it twenty minutes before making their leave; Ryan wanders off to pick at what remains of the hors d'oeuvres to soak up the alcohol in his system, then meets back up with Jeremy to leave with the other people starting to trickle out.

As they walk through the dark parking lot to Jeremy’s car, Ryan’s a little giddy with the excitement of a job gone well, admittedly still reeling from the kiss even now. Honestly, he’ll chalk the night up as a success all around.

Typically, that’s when someone emerges from the one of the rows of grapevines and points a gun at his head. “Oh, goddammit.”

It’s clearly not the reaction the man was expecting. He pauses, then steps completely out of the shadows, aim not faltering. It’s the guy from before, managing to look a lot more intimidating now that Jeremy isn’t actively flirting with him and he’s holding a gun. “Alright, let’s make this quick.” He points at Jeremy, gun still pointed between Ryan’s eyes. “You give me the flash drive, I won’t blow your boyfriend’s brains out.”

“Husband,” Jeremy blurts.

The man stares at him. “What.”

Jeremy raises his left hand and wiggles his fingers at him, the gold of his borrowed ring glinting in the light of far-off car headlights. “He’s my husband.”

“Jeremy,” Ryan says lowly. They both have pistols strapped to their shins, but the guy has his finger on the trigger and looks like he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot; Ryan doesn’t want to risk trying to get to his gun.

“Look,” Jeremy says placatingly, holding his hands up and taking a few steps towards the guy. “We don’t want any trouble—” He breaks off when the sound of the guy flicking off the safety cuts into the quiet dark of the parking lot.

“Back up,” he barks. Jeremy does, not looking pleased about it. “Flash drive. Now.”

“Jeremy,” Ryan says again. Jeremy’s eyes flick towards him, and Ryan shakes his head almost imperceptibly. They just need to buy themselves some time, distract the guy until one of them can disarm him—

Jeremy reaches into his pocket and pulls out the flash drive, throwing it into the air. The guy catches it, tucking it into his own pocket.

“No!” Ryan snaps. Jeremy gives him a look he can’t parse.

“There,” the guy says, smiling. Ryan wants to bash his face in. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Can we fucking go now?” Jeremy asks roughly.

There’s a tense pause, where it looks like the guy is giving it some thought. Finally, he shrugs, gesturing with the gun but not stashing it away. “Go,” he says. “If I see you back here, you both die.”

Jeremy doesn’t respond, just reaches out and snags Ryan by the arm, having to half drag him away towards the car. Ryan’s half expecting shots to ring out, but they make it out of range safely.

“What the hell was that?” he hisses, pulling out of Jeremy’s grip. “We could’ve figured something out! The whole fucking night was a waste.”

“Ryan, relax.”

“How am I supposed to relax?” Ryan demands, and then he absolutely does not shriek when the driver’s side door to Jeremy’s car crashes open.

“Take it easy, Haywood,” Joel says as he gets out of the car. “And here I thought you were supposed to be the unflappable Vagabond.”

“What are _you_ doing here?” Ryan’s pretty sure he has a headache.

“Making a delivery,” Joel says calmly. He digs in the pocket of his rumpled suit for a moment, then tosses something at Jeremy. Ryan looks over.

It’s a flash drive.

He _definitely_ has a headache. “What the fuck is going on.”

“Thanks, Joel,” Jeremy says, pocketing the drive and walking around to the driver’s side of the car with his arms out like he’s going to hug him.

“Nope, don’t even, don’t touch me,” Joel says promptly, backpedaling away as Jeremy laughs. “You better tell Geoff I helped you and that I’m expecting a cut of the profit.”

“You got it.”

“A big cut.”

Jeremy rolls his eyes and gets into the car, Ryan following suit as his brain chugs along to keep up.

Ryan pulls his door shut and looks over at him, a little bit in love. “You clever motherfucker.”

Jeremy beams at him.

“When’d you trade the drives off with Heyman?”

“While you were stuffing your face with those little finger sandwiches.”

“Excuse you,” Ryan says defensively, “I was not _stuffing my face_ , I was _very delicately_ —”

And Jeremy is kissing him.

Jeremy is kissing him and they’re not pretending for anyone anymore, so it doesn’t make sense, it _doesn’t make sense_ but Ryan is half climbing over the center console to get a better grip on Jeremy because he’s scared this is all he’s going to get.

Jeremy kisses like he does everything: with his whole self, with all his focus, with enthusiasm, and maybe Ryan’s still a little buzzed because he’s never gotten half hard from a messy make out before. Not that he’s complaining.

Jeremy’s laughing breathlessly when they part for air, smoothing Ryan’s hair down from where he’d mussed it up in his excitement. “Sorry,” he says. “Just wanted to finally do that when we weren’t, you know, being watched by a weirdo with a gun.”

“You’re still being watched by a weirdo with a gun,” Ryan feels the need to point out.

“Who’s that?”

“Me.”

Jeremy snorts with laughter and leans in to kiss him again, then pauses. “This is,” he says. Pauses again. “This is okay, right?”

Ryan stares at him. “I’d tell you how long I’ve wanted to kiss you for, but it’d be very embarrassing and you’d never let me live it down, so.”

Jeremy looks surprised, which is fucking incredible, really. Maybe Ryan hasn’t been as obvious as he’d thought. “Really?”

“Are you kidding? Look at you.”

Jeremy lets out a disbelieving noise. “Look at me? Look at _you_.”

Ryan flushes faintly. From— From the alcohol, surely. “Okay, well, that’s— Shut up. Go back to the kissing.”

“Are you embarrassed?” Jeremy coos.

“Shut _up_. Commence with the kissing. Conversation over, less of the talking thing, more of the lips thing.”

“More of the lips thing,” Jeremy echoes, grinning.

“ _Shut up_ ,” Ryan says helplessly, really starting to blush now.

Jeremy’s smile is _blinding_.

**Author's Note:**

> i've also got a writing blog here: http://anarchetypal.tumblr.com/


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